When my brother Paul kicked Grandma Eleanor out for not contributing financially, I took her in, driven by love and loyalty. As she rebuilt her life and found unexpected success, Paul’s regret surfaced, but I wondered if it would be enough to mend our broken bonds.
“Rachel, I can’t keep doing this,” Paul said, slamming his cup on the table. “She’s costing too much.”
“Paul, she’s our grandmother. She raised us, remember?” I replied, trying to stay calm.
“That was then. Things are different now,” he insisted. “She doesn’t bring anything to the table anymore. She just sits there, painting and wasting time.”
“Those paintings mean something to her,” I said. “And they could mean something to us if we let them.”
Paul scoffed. “Sentimental nonsense. I need to
